A morning in the life of Super Doc
by Mrs. Flutterby
Summary: This is a oneshot story about the awesome Dr. Kevin Casey, who worked at Sacred Heart for a while. I wanted a story to be written from his POV. This story gives a frank view of the life of an OCD sufferer. To be safe, I rated it Teen for language. Enjoy.


**A/N Yes, I suffer from OCD like Dr. Kevin Casey. So maybe not everyone will understand why he acts so...crazy. But for the ones who do understand, this is for you. Also, I work at Walgreens, hence the reference. Gotta plug the company whenever I can:) And no, I do not own Scrubs...never will. Sighs sadly Oh and by the way, for those who have read my other work here, "In the Matter of Seconds" Don't worry. I didn't abandon it forever..I will finish it, but this story popped into my head and needed to be written. And I was on a break from writing...Anyway, without any further ado, here you go!!!!**

Beep! Beep! Beep! My alarm clock goes off at six AM. I wait until it beeps exactly ten times, then I roll over and shut it off before it can beep again. I don't want to get up, but I have to be out of bed with both feet flat on the floor before six o' one. My shift at the hospital starts at ten, but it takes me three hours to get ready, and an hour to drive there...I live ten minutes away.

I go to the bathroom to start the ungodly ritual of showering. I go into my medicine cabinet and take out a new bar of soap and a travel bottle of shampoo. I step into the shower and move the hot water dial to exactly three fourths of a turn, and the cold exactly one fourth of a turn. No more, no less. I put in two squirts of shampoo into my right hand and rub it through my hair. I then count to thirty and rinse it out. I repeat this ritual until it "feels right." I then scrub the right side of my body, proceeding from my face, down to my right little toe, I rinse it, then the left. The worm of anxiety is making its way through my stomach already. Sometimes I will do this ten, fifteen times. There is no set number, it just needs to feel right. I have to get it right!

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I step out onto the towel I have pre-laid out the night before. I dry off the left side of my body, starting from my left little toe, and proceeding to my face. Then I take another towel and dry the right side. The polar opposite of my soaping up. Speaking of soap, I take out a pair of gloves I have for this purpose out of the cabinet, and put them on. I take the soap out of the shower, making careful sure to not touch the curtain. I extract the dirty soap and shampoo bottle and throw them away along with the gloves. Gotta pick up more soap on the way home, I remind myself. Something else to add to the list.

I put the towel around myself and go back to my bedroom. Crap, I stepped in with my left foot over the threshold first. Damnit. I turn back and step back in and stumble a little going in. I turn back again and do it again, and again, and again, and again. Finally, I'm able to walk into my room. I cast a glance over to my clock. It's already quarter after seven. I take off my towel and go over to my chair, on which lay a pair of pants and shirt and tie I had picked out the night before. I have learned that I can't pick them the next morning, too much pressure. The anxiety I felt in the shower is now a definite presence in my head. Like constant alarm bells in my mind. What I wouldn't give for a moment's peace, Unfortunately, my brain is so fucked up, it thinks that this anxiety I feel is normal by now.

I get dressed quickly. Or as quickly as I can. I put on my underwear, right sock, left sock, pants, shirts, tie and then right shoe, then left shoe. I pick up all the towels I used and throw them away. Gotta pick up more towels too..luckily they're only a dollar for a pack of four at the local Walgreens. I can pick up my prescription, soap and towels all in one stop. I know, I can pick up my scrips at the hospital I work at, but I don't want people I work with to see just how much meds I have to take...just to get my OCD at this level. Without it...well, I don't want to think about it. The time reads seven thirty six. Good, I'm ahead of schedule.

I make my bed now. Luckily because I'm single, my bed is small. I make it the same way I have made it every day for the last twenty years. Finally, after fussing and unmaking it and remaking it at least six or seven times, I'm satisfied. Well, I have been satisfied since the first time. My OCD has not. The time reads eight o' clock.

I go into my kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. I put the coffee on a timer, so it's ready by seven o' clock. I put in exactly two spoonfuls of sugar and one capful of cream. I stir ten times clockwise and put the spoon right into the dishwasher. I drink my coffee quickly while sitting at my kitchen table. I do not have time this morning for breakfast. I never have time for breakfast. It would take me hours to choose what I want to eat. Cereal? Toast? A bagel? Eggs? Too many choices. Then to lay out the table, eat, then clean up? It would be about noon before I could get to work. Better to just skip it.

I put my mug into the dishwasher with the spoon and head back into the bathroom, and shut and lock the door. I then take out a toothbrush from the medicine cabinet and take it out of it's package. I then brush my teeth. Spending exactly half a minute per tooth. Moving from the back of the right side of my mouth, to the left side, then I move over to the upper right side and brush to the left side. I spit and rinse out my mouth. Then I repeat the ritual again. Then again. Finally, I feel clean enough. I throw away the toothbrush and the paper cup I used to rinse.

I look at myself in the mirror for the first time since waking up. I see the bags under my eyes. I see the stress and exhaustion written into my forehead and the lines around my eyes. I smile at myself. Yes, practice smiling. You see, I'm not the kind of person who allows people to see what I go through every day. The only one who ever saw me was JD. That young doctor at Sacred Heart Hospital, where I worked for a couple of weeks. I liked it enough there, it was nice seeing Perry Cox again, and that blond doctor was pretty cute. But eventually, the stress got to be too much...as it always does, and I requested to be transferred back to my old hospital. I told everyone at Sacred Heart that they called me back to my old hospital, but in reality, I think they were glad to be rid of me for a month. Crazy Dr. Casey...that's what the younger interns whisper behind my back. "Don't be stuck with Crazy Dr. Casey!" In fact, I was the only resident in the hospital that didn't have any interns working for me. Crazy Dr. Casey, using up all the soap. Crazy Dr. Casey, who takes over an hour to drive to work when in fact, I live only ten minutes away. Crazy, crazy, crazy. I rub a hand over my eyes, and take another look at myself. I smile again, making sure It's sincere enough, but lighthearted enough. Finally, I'm satisfied.

I walk out of my bathroom and look at the clock a final time. It's quarter of nine. Time to leave. I walk through my apartment and make sure everything is off, and straightened. I head out the door, and I don't need to turn around. Thank God for small favors. I lock the door, and check it a few times. It's okay. I leave the apartment and walk to my car. I get in and drive off. I drive about ten feet when I run over something. I feel it go BUMP! It's just a stick. Or at least, I think it's a stick. I'm pretty sure it's a stick. Not a child. It couldn't be a child. Oh my god, I ran over a child!!! I pull over and jump out of the car, fully expecting to see blood and gore all over my back bumper and a pair of sobbing parents running at me...nothing. It was a stick. Cursing at myself, I get back into the car and keep driving. I will repeat this checking ritual about ten or so times. Each time I hit a rock, or a stick, or something, my mind insists that I have killed a child, or a beloved pet. I hate driving. The anxiety is almost overwhelming for me. I breathe in and out as evenly as I can, trying to will my hands to stop shaking. It's lunacy! Rationally, there is no way a small bump in the road is a child. I would _see _a child! I would hear a child! It's just a stick! Or a pot-hole! But OCD is an irrational disorder.

It's nine fifty when I pull into work. I pull into my usual parking spot and lock the car. Then I relock the car, again and again and again. I'm going to be late...I know it...it becomes a chant inside my head."I'mgonnabelateI'mgonnabelateI'mgonnabelateI'mgonnabelate!!" The worm of anxiety that permanently lives in my stomach, has become a beast. Huge, roaring, fanged..striking with a vengence. I run inside the hospital and punch the time clock. Ten o' clock on the nose. Perfect. The monster of anxiety that is welled up in my chest is sated...for now anyway.


End file.
